221B ficlets
by DoctorNicotine
Summary: Seems like lots of people are writing these 221B fics for BBC Sherlock, so I thought I'd give it a go. 221 words and the last word starting with B. Rating for implied sex and smoking.
1. Both

Sherlock – 221b

Small ficlets that have only 221 words and the last word starts with B.

Sherlock leaned against a brick wall and exhaled a deep, raspy sigh. Smoke curled up slowly from his mouth and he watched it disappear far above Scotland Yard's windows. His eyes were half closed and his lips turned up in a smirk. He decided he deserved this after a particularly long and gruesome case.

Lestrade stood next to him doing the same, though with a different expression. He took each drag from his cigarette with a look of guilt in his eyes. He looked at the small red embers, thinking of how disappointed his wife would be when he came home tonight.

"She'll forgive you this once. She knows you haven't slept properly in days."

Lestrade grinned, shaking his head. "You're one to talk. I hear John has to practically tie you to the bed."

Sherlock grinned back. "Only when I'm on my best behaviour, then John will _reward_ me."

"Oh god, I didn't need to hear that." The detective groaned.

Sherlock ignored him and threw the remainder of his cigarette on the alley street. He quickly pulled another one out of his pocket and placed it in his lips.

"How is it anyway?" Lestrade asked, lighting Sherlock's cigarette for him. John doesn't ever trust him enough to carry around lighters.

"Absolutely fantastic."

"The sex or the smoke?"

"Both."


	2. Bitter

"Sherlock?" John called for the third time. He set his mug on the newspaper in front of him.

"What!" Sherlock snapped from the kitchen. "I'm busy!"

"I just have a question. I was wondering if you'd seen in the paper about these prostitutes being murdered."

"Yes."

John waited patiently. "And?"

"And what?" Sherlock's voice sounded muffled and far off. John decided it would be not to wonder why it sounded like that.

"And, are you going to look into them? Sounds interesting enough for you."

"Okāsan."

"Excuse me?"

"It's Japanese brothel. She's killing her prostitutes for insurance money to pay off her drug debts."

"Ah…" John took a sip of his tea. "I take it you've already discussed everything with Lestrade then?"

"No."

"No? Then call him now! Police have been stressing over this for a month."

"No."

"For god's… Sherlock there are girls who could be dead by now because you can't be bothered to pick up your phone! What possible reason could you have for not?"

"Busy."

"You haven't got a single case! Your bone marrow experiment can wait!"

Sherlock didn't move, didn't speak, didn't even look up from his microscope as John walked out.

He stepped back from the microscope and took a swig from his mug then made a face. His tea had gone cold and bitter.


	3. Blood

"John!" Sherlock whined, his voice nasally and rough. He spat out a cough that shook his thin frame. There was no answer.

"John!"

"What? I'm coming!" John yelled from downstairs. He made it to Sherlock's room in a matter of seconds. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock rolled over in his bed, burying his face in his pillow. His dark curls were a sweaty mess against his pale neck and bare back.

"John, I feel ill…"

John sighed. "Well yes, you look it too." He pulled the blankets closer to Sherlock's shivering body. "But, now we know not to jump in the Thames in January, just to try and swim up to a boat when the police were already on board, right?"

Sherlock made no reply.

John shook his head. "I thought not. C'mon. Sit up so I can get some water in you."

Sherlock sat up, dramatically groaning with every movement. As soon as he was fully upright a cough shook his body again and he almost doubled over. John could do nothing but watch and rub his back soothingly.

After 94 seconds of coughing (and John _did_ count) Sherlock stopped, staring at his palm. John leaned forward, trying to see what he was looking at.

"Sherlock? What is it? Show me."

Sherlock, still shaking, slowly showed John his open hand.

"John… Blood."

* _Gasp_, cliff hanger? Cuz I love to torture y'all.

Might resolve this in another 221B (because I am addicted now), might not. We shall see…


	4. Batter

A loud crash sounded from the kitchen, followed by curses that would make a sailor blush. Yet another shattering crash a few moments later and John winced.

He began to fidget on the living room couch, leaning over to try and look into the kitchen. As he did a puff of what looked like white smoke drifted through the doorway. A mug cut through the powder and shattered against the opposite wall.

"I'm fine!" Sherlock yelled before John could open his mouth to ask anything.

John leaned back against the cushions with a sigh, rubbing his leg. Sherlock had forced him onto it hours ago, telling him that under no circumstances was he to leave this couch or come anywhere near the kitchen. John, groggy without his morning tea, had no choice but to obey.

John took the time to review what on earth Sherlock could be doing. Horrible experimentation on Anderson ruled very likely, or, god forbid, _cooking_. John shuddered.

An echoing thud rang out and John jumped out of his chair.

"Sherlock!"

The flat was completely silent.

"Sherlock!" John yelled again, rushing to the door.

Sherlock turned to face him, fine white dust coating his black curls. He held a plate in his hands.

"John! Happy anniversary!"

John giggled at the sight of Sherlock Holmes covered in cake batter.


	5. Better

Sherlock shivered. He was so cold, so very cold. Still fighting off the last of his fever. He coughed and stretched his legs. But... There was something wrong. There was another body yawning and stretching next to him.

His mind began to race and he forced down a wave of inexplicable panic. His mind was still addled from his sickness and he was feeling perhaps a bit paranoid. _With good reason, _he thought. _Moriarty is still on the loose and Moran to worry about as well…_

He sat bolt upright. That's what he had been doing before catching the flu, how stupid! Chasing after Moriarty's goons in cold and damp London alleys, no wonder he was sick. He swayed with lightheadedness.

_Focus!_ He cursed himself. _You need to focus. There is a strange body next to you, and you're letting your mind wander! Idiot!_

Still swaying and shivering Sherlock looked to his left. He let a sigh of relief. It was John, only John, likely exhausted from caring for Sherlock almost all night.

John muttered something in his sleep and curled closer to Sherlock's side. Sherlock awkwardly patted his hair, unsure what to do.

John, sensing the touch, yawned and slowly blinked at Sherlock, his mind working out what exactly was happening.

"Morning," he mumbled. "How're you feeling?"

Sherlock smiled. "Better."


	6. Bear

What was John to Sherlock?

This difficult question had kept him pondering for hours.

Was John his lover?

Yes, they shared a bed, and had for months now. But that was only during the night. During the day John's attitude went back to 'concerned flatmate' and hardly ever lover. Not that Sherlock minded this arrangement; he was more than happy to keep his work with John far away from their escapades at nights.

Was John his soldier?

John is the only man who was willing to chase after him, no matter what the danger. More than once he has put his own life on the line, expecting nothing at all in return. Always near to hold Sherlock's hand and tell him that, truly, everything will be alright. The perfect soldier to help Sherlock fight himself.

Was John his anything?

Did he really have anything to do with John other than helping him pay the rent?

Finally, he snapped out of his pondering to see that it was well past midnight, and John had already gone to bed. He watched John sleeping silently, barely moving but for the rise and fall of his chest.

As he slipped into their bed he finally realized what John was to him. John was the thing that kept him childishly selfish. John was his teddy bear.


	7. Banff

"You're kidding me Sherlock, right? This is some kind of joke?"

"John, when have you ever known me to tell a joke?"

John grunted in agreement, eyes still locked on his laptop.

"But really, do you think email was the best way to tell me that we're being shipped off to Scotland tomorrow? I have a job you know! A job that expects me in tomorrow to do that job!"

"If you say 'job' one more time I will throw something at you. And I already called and told the clinic you were going to be away for a few days."

"Really? How very thoughtful of you." John growled.

Sherlock closed his eyes and settled onto the living room couch.

"You're the one who's always whining about needing a holiday anyway."

"A case is not a holiday, Sherlock! I know that now since you tricked into following you to France only to find out that we were going to be catching art thieves instead of actually appreciating it!"

"Oh, calm down! It's a simple murder case, it shouldn't take more than a few days for me to solve!"

"Right, because murder cases are always simple."

"Generally, yes."

John huffed but didn't say anymore. After reading the email again, he turned to Sherlock to ask something.

"Sherlock… Where the hell is Banff?"


End file.
